The world's more full of weeping than you can understand
by Emrys1411
Summary: Aramis can't recall how he got that scar on his head. He only knows because Porthos remembers the day very well. Athos, however, pretends to have forgotten; he can hardly bare to look at that scar because he knows, he hates, that he was the one to put it there. No slash. Contains serious themes - alcoholism and depression.
1. Chapter 1

The world's more full of weeping than you can understand 

Summary: Aramis can't recall how he got that scar on his head. He only knows because Porthos remembers the day very well. Athos, however, pretends to have forgotten; he can hardly bare to look at that scar because he knows, he _hates_, that he was the one to put it there.

A/N: I doubt I've kept them very much in character – I've only seen the BBC series – but I did try my best. Please review. I'll try to get the second part up as soon as possible.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything here. The title is a direct quote from W.B. Yeats.

* * *

Athos had been drinking far more than usual as of late, and for someone who drank to the excess already, that was a little worrisome for Porthos and Aramis.

They didn't know what had plunged Athos into his most recent abyss of hatred, guilt and self-loathing; they knew nothing of Thomas, or Milady, or her death.

Her death at his hand.

Athos had done his duty on that grey, pale day. He had done what was expected of him and Athos was a soldier – he would conduct his duty until the very end.

But that didn't dull the pain of the open, raw wound inside him; his very soul _ached_ with the intensity of it.

Alcohol seemed to help, at least, for a little while.

It was a Friday night, or maybe a Saturday, Athos couldn't be sure.

He was in a tavern.

He didn't know which tavern.

There were cries of laughter, of remorse, of drunken rage and smoke rose high into ceiling from the fires and the smell of acidic wine permeated the air – Athos could barely see in front of his face.

For every occupant was an identical double who wavered in and out of his perception like light reflecting off the dark surface of a river.

Athos felt sick and numb all at once, and then he noted two cloaked figures slip stealthy into the ale-house, eyes sharp, brows pinched, lips fused tightly together.

Porthos and Aramis.

He supposed being left alone to slowly kill himself with the bottle was too much to ask.

They had to interfere.

They had to _care. _

And a part of his drunken self hated them for it.

"Athos."

Porthos towered above, his hands planted firmly on Athos' table; his expression was of dismay, disappointment, disgust.

Or perhaps it was concern.

A penetrating worry for one of his best friends, a desperate desire not to see him in the dirt, a futile hope that kind words could undo an eternity of pain.

Athos overlooked those particular emotions, however.

All he saw was the judgement and it made him angrier than he had felt in some time.

It was hard to feel angry about anything when you were lost in the dark depths of depression and sorrow; nothing matters there. It's all pointless.

Regret.

Bitterness.

Resentment.

They're all just emotions that come in with the tide and are washed up on the beach on a winter morning, left to rot and decay into emptiness.

So Athos enjoyed the anger.

He stood up, his chair fell backwards, his hand remained firmly on his wine bottle.

"Athos, you should come with us."

It was Aramis who had spoken, his soulful eyes round and alarmed at the state of his friend.

"Please."

And then Athos was laughing and he wasn't sure why; it certainly wasn't because anything Aramis had said was particularly _funny_.

Porthos drew himself up to full height – which meant he had the pleasure of looking down on Athos – and allowed his eyes to darken in something akin to fury.

Porthos was always a man of fire.

"And why would I do that, _mon frere_?"

Athos spat and Aramis flinched.

"Because we are your friends, Athos, and we're concerned about you. This…" Aramis gestured widely around the taverns with his arms, a single eyebrow raised, "this isn't you."

"Then you very little about me, Aramis," Athos' words were only slightly slurred and infused with a sharp tang of hostility, "this is _exactly_ where I belong."

Porthos rolled his eyes and gestured to Aramis to come around the left side of their wayward friend.

Aramis had reached Athos first.

He'd placed his hands on the older man's arm, gently, kindly.

But the touch seemed to burn through Athos' sleeve, through the skin and sinew and muscle and bone beneath and he cried out in a fury that was unknown to him, an anger that had been simmering deep inside his gut for the last four years, a ferocious hatred of himself and the world and the woman who betrayed him.

He didn't hate Aramis.

He loved Aramis, his brother.

But Aramis was just there. He was a tangible, living, moving body. He wasn't an abstract emotion extenuated by the effects of alcohol. Athos couldn't hurt his own emotions because they were tangled together into one mass of absolute scorn and infused into his very being.

But Aramis was _there_.

And so before Athos had truly thought about what he was doing, he had seized Aramis by the collar of his cloak and shoved them both bodily forward – away from Porthos. The younger man tried to hide the look of shock – and the momentary flash of fear – from his expression and tried to remove Athos' hands from his neck.

But Athos had seen it and it took less than a moment for it to register in his brain before he had thrown – like a ragdoll to be discarded on the street – Aramis backwards with every ounce of strength he could muster from deep inside himself.

Aramis had twisted in the air, like a contortionist without joints.

Athos heard Porthos cry out.

He heard glass smash.

And he heard the sound of bone splinter against wood.

The sound of Aramis' skull splitting against the edge of the table, and then the stone floor beneath.

The tavern fell silent and Aramis remained where he had fallen.

Crumpled, broken, _bleeding_.


	2. Chapter 2

The world's more full of weeping than you can understand

Summary: Aramis can't recall how he got that scar on his head. He only knows because Porthos remembers the day very well. Athos, however, pretends to have forgotten; he can hardly bare to look at that scar because he knows, he hates, that he was the one to put it there. No slash. Adult themes - depression and alcoholism.

A/N: I won't be able to update often – I'm very busy with exams and revision and so on – and I thought posting this really short chapter would be better than nothing. I don't like this chapter at all, because I don't know where I'm going with this! Any help, advice etc would be greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: The Musketeers do not belong to me.

* * *

Porthos hesistated for less than a second after Aramis fell.

He shoved Athos out of the way – without a single care –and dropped hastily down beside his fallen, deathly still friend.

"Aramis."

His limbs felt heavy, his arm shook minutely and the blood rushed in his ears as he reached out, cupping Aramis' jaw in one hand to gently turn his face upwards towards the dingy light of the room.

"Porthos – is he –"

Porthos didn't acknowledge the quiet utterance of Athos, who clung precariously to an overturned table, the floor swaying beneath his feet.

Instead, he swallowed heavily, his chest heaving with each stuttered breath as he searched for his friends pulse.

It was there.

Strong, but slow.

The tavern had been overtaken by a startled, tense hush, but Porthos barely noticed.

All he could look at was Aramis.

The blood was oozing, _pulsing_ from the two inch long cut near the centre of his forehead, just above his eyebrow. It was deep and jagged and Porthos nearly gagged at the sight of it because he knew that with head injuries, the damage lay _inside_.

"Porthos?"

Porthos realised that he hadn't removed his hand from Aramis' pale face – his other had settled upon his friend's chest just to feel the constant beat of his heart, a steady, reassuring rhythm – and he hadn't said a word.

"I – I need to get him out of here. It's too dark."

Porthos wasn't going to wait for a response from Athos, who was too drunk, too astounded, to do anything but sway and lose all the blood from his cheeks.

A vaguely familiar voice piped up from Porthos' left and a shadowy, hunched figure emerged from the corner.

It was Helene, an elderly woman he often saw in the market place buying meat.

He didn't ask what she was doing in one of the most notorious taverns in Paris.

"My house is just across the street – bring him there. I have a little medical training. I'm not Hippocrates, but my mother taught me when I was a little girl. She was a – "

Porthos didn't bother listening to the rest of Helene's small speech. Instead, as gently as he could, he raised Aramis up so the other man's head lulled onto his shoulder. Porthos hooked one arm under his best friend's legs, with the other looped behind his back, and then lifted Aramis up into the air.

Aramis' own arms fell uselessly over the sides, his head slipping from underneath Porthos' chin to hang limply backwards.

Porthos could feel the warm blood on his shirt.

Oddly enough, the sight of a burly, enraged Musketeers had everyone in the tavern darting to the side as the bigger man marched purposely through the room behind Helene.

A few moments later, when Porthos and Aramis were gone, Athos took a shaky step towards the door.

"You've done it now, friend," whispered a familiar drunkard, with a disgustingly yellow grin.

Athos glanced at the man, a cold, icy fire blazing in the depths of his eyes and he wanted to kill him, he wanted to blame someone else for what he'd done –

But he couldn't.

It was his fault.

If Aramis died at his hand, then Athos swore in that very moment, with every last shred of conviction and dignity he had, that he would continue living.

To die would be too blissful, it would be a release.

He deserved, and would embrace, every nightmare, every bleak and utterly pointless morning, and every damn _second_ of torment.

And with that thought, Athos stumbled hastily from the tavern just in time to see the Helene's door slam in his face.

Without a sound, he dropped heavily onto his aching knees, his fingernails scratching against the door as he sought desperately for something to hold onto.

As the dampness of the rain soaked through the material of his clothes, and the moon continued its pale journey across the night sky, Athos waited.

He waited for hours, until the sun came up, and Porthos emerged from the house.


End file.
